Distractions
by Malvolia
Summary: Draco doesn’t really want to describe his latest Quidditch-related fantasy, but Pansy can be extremely dange…convincing. Set during OotP.


_Weasley. Ron Weasley. The cup is as good as ours._ A satisfied smirk crept over Draco Malfoy's face as he leaned against the arm of his favorite couch in the Slytherin common room, running over scenarios of Quidditch victories. Most of these scenarios involved him making a spectacular, never-before-seen-the-likes-of-it catch of the Golden Snitch, then landing on the field to the roars of his admirers. Girls would be throwing flowers and crying (for the purposes of this fantasy Draco would allow Slytherins to be the crying type, but they would not be crying in a snivelly Gryffindor way, but in more of....)

"What are you looking at?"

Draco jerked involuntarily out of his reverie and found himself staring at Pansy Parkinson, who had been sitting on the rug levitating crumpled bits of parchment into the fireplace. Draco had a strong suspicion that Millicent Bulstrode would not be turning in tomorrow's homework on time.

"What. Are. You. Looking. At," Pansy repeated.

"Not at you," said Draco.

Pansy scanned the deserted common room. "There's nobody else here," she said dryly. "So you must have been looking at me."

"Through you," countered Draco. "I didn't know you were here, honestly. Now, if you don't mind, I was in the middle of a very elaborate fantasy, and I'd like to get back to it." He shifted position slightly and settled his gaze on a spot on the ceiling where no one was likely to accuse him of staring at her.

_As if I'd stare at her. Not bloody likely; certainly not while she's awake and likely to catch me at it._

He felt someone sit on the couch next to him. "Well then, since you're so busy fantasizing, would you like me to take your Defense Against the Dark Arts essay off your hands so you don't drool all over it or something?"

Draco looked down and noticed that he was indeed still holding the essay that he had been proofreading. He looked up and saw a malevolent glint in Pansy's eyes.

"I'm not letting go of the parchment, Parkinson," he said. "Burn your own essay."

Pansy gasped theatrically. "I would _never..._."

"Odd." Draco let his eyes drift towards the fireplace. "I suppose Millicent will be turning in her essay along with the rest of us?"

"Oh, well, _Millicent_," said Pansy off-handedly. "You know Bulstrode has never learned to keep her mouth shut."

"About?"

"None of your business," said Pansy. And with another quick look around the common room, she settled herself on his lap. Draco didn't bat an eye. "Besides," she said, reaching out to toy with his shirt collar, "my relationship with Bulstrode is much less...amicable than my relationship with you."

Draco looked her in the eye unblinkingly. "I'm not letting go of this essay."

Pansy hit him on the shoulder. "Fantasizing about _what_, you git?"

_So that's what this is really about._ "You're cute when you're jealous," smirked Draco.

"I'm always jealous," said Pansy.

Draco shrugged.

Pansy began tracing patterns on his chest. It was vaguely relaxing until Draco recognized one particular shape as a symbol associated with a rather nasty curse. He grabbed both of her wrists.

"None of that," he said coolly.

"I tell you everything," pouted Pansy, taking hold of his wrists in turn.

"Now where," asked Draco, "would be the fun in that?"

Pansy twisted her arms and slammed his wrists into each other, causing him to release his hold on her. She sat back, folded her arms, and settled in for a good long staring session. Draco rubbed his wrists in as casual a manner as he could.

"Weasley," said Draco. "If you must know."

A look of utter revulsion came over Pansy's face, and she moved off to the other end of the couch. "You were fantasizing about a Weasley?" she said. "Where did I come into this?"

Draco thought of trying again to explain he hadn't known she was there, but thought better of it.

"Get back here," he ordered. "I was thinking about Ron Weasley's marvelous skills as a Keeper. Or an anti-Keeper, rather."

The revulsion on Pansy's face turned to malicious amusement, and she returned to Draco's lap. "Tell me more."

"Weasley is a no-talent Muggle-lover whose father can barely afford to keep food on the table," said Draco. "He's not likely to have had much of a chance to practice flying quality brooms, except possibly Potter's, and that not much, considering how close Potter and his broom are."

Pansy nodded. "So...is that all?"

"I was seeing a glorious victory," he said. "I catch the Snitch with a stunning display of speed and grace..."

"No news there."

"...everyone is cheering..."

"Of course."

"...my adoring fans are rushing the field..."

"Hm," said Pansy, and Draco thought it prudent to add, "led by yourself," at which Pansy seemed to relax again.

"The cup is mine...ours," he said.

"Ours," Pansy repeated. She ran her fingers lightly across his face. "A beautiful fantasy."

"Beautiful," agreed Draco.

"It reminds me," said Pansy, "of a little idea I had earlier today...."

She leaned forward to whisper in his ear (a completely unnecessary gesture considering the empty common room, but one Draco did not discourage...habits of secrecy and mistrust were hard to break, and shouldn't be tampered with). Draco listened with growing interest as she outlined her plan, and with growing amusement as she began to sing softly, the words carrying despite her hushed tone. In that moment, Draco wouldn't have even cared if anyone had walked in on them in this indecorous posture, because he would wager that all the Slytherins would merely start to sing with her.

After all, Pansy was their Queen.


End file.
